Free Lover in Law by Jo Kessel Page B

in denial.
     
    “Adam’s not very into the idea.”
     
    “More fool him.”
     
    “Why do you say that?”
     
    “A man should know when he’s onto a good thing.”
     
    I smile tipsily.
     
    “Are you flirting with me, Mr de Klerk?”
     
    “Not yet.”
     
    My eyes lower from his huge jet-black irises to his sensuously full lips and my heartbeat quickens.
     
    “You look lovely in this light,” he says matter-of-factly.
     
    “What are you trying to say?” I pretend to be offended. “There IS no light!”
     
    “Alison Kirk, my learned friend, you’ve got to learn to take a compliment better.”
     
    “Anthony de Klerk, my learned friend, you’ve got to learn not to dish out compliments after I’ve drunk so much or I might end up believing you!”
     
    The waitress delivers our bill on a small silver saucer. We both reach out for it, our fingers lightly brushing, skin on skin. A tingle, a bolt of energy, shoots up my arm as he pulls away, clutching onto the thin piece of paper. Our eyes meet. Slightly embarrassed for my part. I don’t know him well enough to know if this was my moment or a shared moment. I DO know that it’s time to go.
     
    “Let’s split it,” I say, reaching for my purse.
     

Chapter 10
     
     
     
     
     
    It’s Friday afternoon at the Old Bailey, the grand dame of criminal courts. This is where Oscar Wilde was found guilty of sodomy. This is where Reggie Kray and Peter Sullivan (aka the Yorkshire Ripper) were convicted of murder. There’s a reverential hush as the judge puts the charge to my client.
     
    “Scott Arthur Conrad Richardson, on the count of murder do you plead guilty or not guilty?”
     
    If my heart’s beating faster than an orchestra Conductor on speed, Christ only knows how my client feels. The Dock is about twenty feet behind me. I turn to look at Scott, flanked by a couple of prison officers. He’s a man used to acting under pressure, so if he’s a mess on the inside, he doesn’t let it show. He loves an audience and by God has he got one. Nobody’s usually interested in pleas and directions hearings. They’re hardly high drama, but that hasn’t deterred the fans. They’ve turned up in their droves. It didn’t take long to fill the spectator’s gallery, forcing many to wait outside, disappointed.    
     
    The silence goes on so long that I get neck crick from looking round in my client’s direction. The spectators are at the edge of their seats. If there’s any truth in the anonymous letter, then perhaps my client’s conscience is getting the better of him. The longer he says nothing, the more I’m worried he might grandstand, or worse still, do a runner. Neeta had a client once who bolted. Despite the two prison officers who were sitting next to him grabbing his arms, he struggled free, shot off down the road and wasn’t picked up for a couple of hours. 
     
    Scott clears his throat.
     
    His voice is loud and clear.
     
    “Not guilty.” 
     
    “Right then,” says the Judge. He leans forward in his seat, peers over the bench and consults with the court officer in front of him. They back and forth with a few possible dates, then he turns his attention to us. “It’s going to be a while, but if both counsel could tell me how November 12 th looks?”
     
    Counsel for the Prosecution accepts the date straight away. I know full well that I’ve nothing booked that far ahead, but pretend to busy myself, thumbing methodically through my diary.
     
    “Yes, my Lord,” I look up. “That would be fine.”
     
    “Good, good,” he says. “November the 12 th it is.”
     
    The Judge pushes back his chair and we all rise. I’ve still not worked out my client. He yo-yo’s from charmer to creep more frequently than a rabbit on laxatives pops a pellet. Were he a less unsettling schizophrenic, I’d have suggested we hang around for a cup of coffee in the canteen to allow the loitering fans to dissipate. Instead I sequester some court